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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28986813">of strife</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(aka game references), Angst, First Kiss, Getting Together, Implied Dandelion/Priscilla, M/M, Past Geralt/Triss - Freeform, Past Geralt/Yennefer, Period-Typical Homophobia, mixed sources (game &amp; tv show)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:34:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28986813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds Jaskier in a hut. They’re both still assholes and he can’t say a word, resting his ass on a wooden bench after saving him. Can’t bear to think of what he wants to say.</p><p>The sun shines. He smells apples. Plucks one and bites into the hard flesh while he pretends not to listen to Jaskier.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, witcher fic</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>of strife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Some minor warnings: if you have emetophobia, it is probably best to stay away. And as the tags state, this is a mixed piece but mostly relies on my playthrough of the game and thus will have some spoilers there. </p><p>Finally, this is not quite a traditional piece, but it needed writing and so I wrote it. Please be gentle? 😳</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I love another, and thus I hate myself.<br/>
I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain;<br/>
Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,<br/>
And my delight is causer of this strife.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder (<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45579/i-find-no-peace">link</a>) </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Months later and hundreds of miles from White Orchard, it hits him.</p><p> </p><p>He halts Roach, stumbles off the path to kneel and catch his breath. His fingers dig into the soil as the chasm in his chest opens up, makes itself known as he empties his stomach into fresh grass.</p><p>He heaves and gasps, the unfamiliar sting of tears in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he should have known.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He remembers: the ache in his chest when the guard told him Jaskier was at the bottom of the channel</p><p>He remembers: the ache in his throat when Priscilla told him about Jaskier</p><p>He remembers: the ache in his head from visiting Jaskier’s lovers, the need to return him, the need to return <em>to</em> him</p><p>He remembers: visiting the whores; their touches were stilted, four hands at once and never quite what he needed but blaming them with their hands too soft, their words too quiet, their presence unintrusively on offer only for his pleasure and all the men that came before, after</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Triss is happy to see him, of course. To help him. Geralt reads it in her eyes, smells it in the sharp bite of ginger-air, pleasantly spiced and going to his head. It reminds him of the long nights they spent awake together. Her gentle touch and her whispers in his ears as she used to sit in his lap, the way her fingers ran over his scars, fed magic into his chest, knitting together the fraying edges of his pain.</p><p>It would be easy to fall back into her love; to let himself be enveloped, swallowed whole in every way possible.</p><p>He considers it.</p><p>Then he lets her go, sees her shake apart before she pulls herself back together. It is a metaphor as much as it is the truth – there is no future for them.</p><p>He sees not why he should use the wrong needle to mend his own heart. He will blunt its tip, leave it useless like Irina’s mock sword; the worn-down patch will tear again and its contents spill putrid into the rest of him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p><strong>Contract: Drowners (six in number). 221 coin.<em><br/>
</em></strong>He needs to work out his anger.</p><p>He finds Jaskier in a hut. They’re both still assholes and he can’t say a word, resting his ass on a wooden bench after saving him. Can’t bear to think of what he wants to say.</p><p>The sun shines. He smells apples. Plucks one and bites into the hard flesh while he pretends not to listen to Jaskier.</p><p><strong>Contract: Noonwraith. Gratis.<br/>
</strong>He needs to alleviate his pain.</p><p>Priscilla is upset with Jaskier and asks Geralt to talk to him. Worst of all, if she were to die now, she’d return to the silver tip of his sword, another needle blunted.</p><p>He finds Jaskier among the wildflowers, gathering a bouquet. Geralt almost crushes the tender petals underfoot.</p><p><strong>Contract: Wyvern. 398 coin.<br/>
</strong>The entire village has chipped in. That is the reason he accepted, but he needs the distraction after Jaskier told him that Priscilla is the crème de la crème; no more whoremongering for him, no more late nights at Novigrad’s brothels. He will better himself. – These are Jaskier’s own words.</p><p>(What Jaskier omits: There will be no more rooms with two beds, with two women, Jaskier one and Geralt the other).</p><p><strong>Contract: Human.<br/>
</strong>Priscilla is hurt and Geralt kills the sonofabitch who did it. When Jaskier predicts that she might yet sing again, Geralt selfishly hopes not. Immediately, realization watches ice cold over him and he needs to step outside. His ability to judge has been affected – he could have killed her, pushed a sword through that innocent heart beating for Jaskier.</p><p>But one bleeding heart is enough.</p><p>Geralt heals faster than humans. He fears less. He feels less. He keeps telling himself.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He remembers Mislav speaking of his loss. Remembers thinking how <em>feeble</em> humanity is, how whimsically judgemental, how wicked to everything not understood. Even love, once it is not a bond forged to aid prosperity, loyalty, the proliferation of royal power.</p><p>He remembers then his own heartfelt condolences. How different their flavour was from the same message he delivered to countless women he’s met, losing their scoundrel betrothed to the dogs or the drowners.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>With the wyvern contract he has enough money to board a ship to Skellige.</p><p>Even after washing ashore and waking up, he still feels mid-drowning, unable to chase the thoughts from his mind. Feelings are distractions to a witcher; he should not let his time be consumed by caring for Jaskier, falling in with his petty little schemes, his <em>any plan is better than no plan</em> attitude to life – each of them centred around pleasing women.</p><p>Geralt is all too aware he is not a woman. And for all Jaskier’s flamboyance, for all the whispers he catches coming from the corners of brothels, he has never known Jaskier to be interested in anything else.</p><p>Song, of course. Drink, <em>of course</em>. Jaskier indulges the ladies he ploughs; he is the master of bawdiness. Never buggery, though. Novigrad would have burnt him long ago if such was the case.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Yennefer is happy to see him, of course. To help him find Ciri. He need not read her body language, nor listen to the hum of his medallion excited to be near her again. The shiver and tightening in his guts as she wraps her slender fingers around his wrist.</p><p>It would be easy to fall back into her love; to let her consume him again in all the wrong ways.</p><p>Hide away for a week, two, to try and fuck all that is unholy out of his system – but Yen is not holy either, and it would not work.</p><p>He would enjoy it. He can picture it even now, feels the smile pull on his lips. He would smirk, and close his eyes, and let Yennefer play his body like a lute. They’d keep going like a pair of ploughing hares, feast their eyes until the candles run out of wax, and then let Yen’s light replace them until they’ve had enough.</p><p>Then again, <em>enough</em> is a concept hard to grasp for someone of Geralt’s disposition.</p><p>And the hole in his chest is still a ragged old wound, wide open and resistant to cauterization. It sucks in everything he feeds it without a trace. It changes nothing.</p><p>He flatters Yen, and indulges her, but when the time comes to choose – he chooses her greatest fear. He smells it on her and feels sick after, when he has left her rooms and letting his forehead rest against the cool stones.</p><p>Geralt hasn’t had a fever since before his trials, once ailing all night as a child, but he imagines this is what it must have been like – his limbs too heavy and his skin too hot, then again too cold, as he makes his way down to the docks.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p><strong>contract: 330<br/>
</strong>He cuts the stomach out of a cockatrice and finds it melting in the palm of his hand.</p><p><strong>contract: 104</strong><br/>
He finds another missing husband; this time still alive, shacked up with a woman that is not his wife.</p><p><strong>contracts: ??</strong><br/>
So many of the contracts are about the missing and the dead, about revenge. People seeking to mend the holes in their own souls – and more than not, Geralt provides the only solace he can offer: truth.</p><p>More than not, that is enough.</p><p><strong>contracts:</strong><br/>
The baron is dead and Whoreson is dead and the drowners in the sewers are dead. Geralt is back in Novigrad and Jaskier is back in the Chameleon, and he is too ploughing drunk to stand.</p><p>Only Geralt, for a change, and Jaskier keeps provoking him with</p>
<ul>
<li>His laughter</li>
<li>His song</li>
<li>His infernal jesting</li>
<li>His grandiose schemes that more often than not fail, but each of which seems to turn back into something positive for him regardless – for Jaskier there is none of the death and destruction Geralt is used to but instead a shimmer of hope bright like broken glass</li>
</ul><p> </p><p>-</p><p>He wakes up with a pounding headache. He may be more resistant to many potions, but alcohol is not one of them.</p><p>He remembers not the things he said. His memories are silent and distorted, as through he is watching them on the bottom of a pail of water.</p><p>Jaskier is cheerful as ever when he brings Geralt food on a tray – bread and plums, and a vile green brew that is not a recipe Geralt knows of. it almost upends his stomach, but eventually settles the incessant pounding of his head and heart. Hours later he tastes its ginger and mandrake root, the 70% bison grass and, quite possibly, last night’s soup.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p><strong>contract</strong><br/>
he needs to get out of the city</p><p><strong>contract</strong><br/>
Jaskier plies him with wine whenever he returns, or fruited mead after Michaelmas has come</p><p><strong>contract</strong><br/>
Jaskier shows up in his dreams, too. Bright and smiling, reaching for Geralt’s hand; he refuses. He does not want to know what will happen if he does – he cannot let himself know.</p><p><strong>contract</strong><br/>
He runs into Yennefer again.</p><p>“You’ve changed,” she says with a frown, drawing a cool finger down his jaw. Then over the thin skin below his eyes. He closes them and lets her touch his face until her thumb drops down to his mouth.</p><p>“Enough,” he says. His voice comes calmer than he expects it to – his insides are twisted up again, filled with stones.</p><p>Yennefer’s eyes widen. He knows she is not used to rejection, least of all twice over. He tastes dust and dry leaves with a mouth too dry to swallow.</p><p><strong>contract</strong><br/>
he polishes his swords, oils them, goes to the blacksmith for frequent upkeep. his finest tunic – thick, black, not too warm or cold – is unraveling with the cuts of swords, ragged teeth and sharp nails, its wool lining first spilling in small tufts and then whole pockets until he loots a shirt from a dead bandit – covers the stench of unfamiliar blood with crushed fruits</p><p><br/>
<strong>contract</strong><br/>
he needs to get out of the city<br/>
he needs to get out of the city<br/>
he needs to get out of the city</p><p>(he can’t stay away)</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier says, pushing a goblet into his hand. The wood is soft from use – drinking and washing. “My friend! Welcome back to the Chameleon! Do you like what we’ve done with the décor? You are right in time for our new production – “</p><p>He can’t listen after that. He is weary from travel, from too many contracts in too few days, and yet he returned here. The noise of the cabaret swells, fills his ears, and he can’t filter the clink of silverware in one corner from the moaning right above his head from Jaskier’s voice from the din.</p><p>He staggers, finds a chair to sit on, then downs his drink. On his way here, he passed the Kingfisher, needed the – courage. Not courage. <em>Help</em>.</p><p>No matter the number of monster hearts he excises, his own chest remains heavy, empty, a mathematical impossibility he can’t find a solution for, but it leaves him breathless –</p><p>–  most of all around Jaskier.</p><p>“Sorry,” he grunts. “Need sleep.”</p><p>-</p><p>He sleeps through the performance, although he dreams of Jaskier singing. On stage, quiet at first and then with bright eyes that only look at Geralt.</p><p>He wakes briefly when Zoltan brings the food, Jaskier’s voice still ringing in his ears. There are no plums this time; only water-thin lager and bread.</p><p>“Eat,” he orders. “Jaskier’ll have me arse if ya don’t.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t ask why Jaskier didn’t bring the food himself; he doesn’t want to know.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <strong>contract<br/>
contract<br/>
contract<br/>
contract<br/>
<br/>
</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>-</strong>
</p><p><strong><br/>
</strong>He stays away from the city for two months, then three. Spends a lot of time in Skellige, because avoiding Yennefer is – ironically – much easier than avoiding Jaskier these days.</p><p>He’s getting drunk at the Inn at the Crossroads when he sees him next.</p><p>“I thought you were dead,” he says, sitting down opposite of Geralt.</p><p>“I thought you were supposed to stay safe in Novigrad,” Geralt tells him.</p><p>Jaskier laughs, shakes his head, drinks deeply. Geralt watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, something pulling at his guts, like a drowner grabbing a fisherman’s oars, and takes a deep breath. Shit.</p><p>“How’d you know I was here anyway?”</p><p>“I have my ways.” When Geralt frowns, Jaskier winks at him. “Come on, don’t spoil the fun.”</p><p>“I’m not here for fun. I’m here on business.”</p><p>“I know.” Jaskier seems unperturbed. “And once again I am saying you need some fun.”</p><p>Geralt knows Jaskier’s idea of fun. “You’re with Priscilla. Remember?” Jaskier’s eyes remain on him, steady. “The trophy of all trophies, or whatever shit you called her?”</p><p>“Don’t say that, Priscilla’s not fucking shit.” Jaskier’s words lilt towards the end of the sentence and he looks down at his cup. “And she has left Novigrad. We’re not together anymore.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“Months ago, Geralt. You’d have known this if you’d visited more often. Or exchanged more than three words whenever you do drop by.”</p><p>He shrugs.</p><p>“We need to talk.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Perhaps not here, indeed. These are private matters. Let’s go upstairs.”</p><p>He feels like he swallowed a brick, his mouth left dry with dust and his stomach heaving. “No.”</p><p>-</p><p>He leaves the inn. Jaskier doesn’t follow.</p><p>Good.</p><p>-</p><p>
  <em>Jaskier in grave danger. Needs help.  Meet Zoltan at the Chameleon. </em>
</p><p>The note turns up in his pocket and he is certain it is a ploy (almost) but –Jaskier has needed saving too often to risk not going.</p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier is at the Chameleon, safe and sound. He smirks at Geralt.</p><p>“If you tell me we need to talk, I am out of here,” Geralt informs him.</p><p>“Hello to you too, dear Geralt. It is not at all that,” Jaskier says. “Just –” <em>I was worried about you. I wanted to see you. I wanted you to see me.</em> Geralt wants to fill in the gap but he is not sure he can. “Just thought you needed a break from all your questing and almost dying.”</p><p>“I <em>rarely</em> almost die on my—”</p><p>Jaskier hushes him, abruptly settling his affront. Shakes his head. Smiles gently, like he is trying to appease a skittish mare and Geralt tries to hide his annoyance. “I was only jesting. Now, I have wonderful company tonight, so would you care to join us? Like the old days?”</p><p>The women with Jaskier are, indeed, wonderful. Young, pretty, and eyeing up Geralt. As unafraid as they come, like they know they need not fear – like they were informed about his arrival.  </p><p>He sits down and drinks the mead. Not as much as last time, although enough to blur the edges of his vision by the time Jaskier drags him onto his feet – “To dance, Geralt, come on!”</p><p>His body was made for fighting, forged from – fires, trials, tested and proven to be – it is not made for anything <em>else</em>. <em>Fucking</em>, maybe, but that requires no finesse. Not the way dancing does, how Jaskier grabs his hand because Geralt “clearly doesn’t know what to do with that when he’s not holding a sword.”</p><p>The girls giggle and Jaskier winks at – not them but at him, at <em>him</em>, and his stomach burns and he’s trying to stay away from Jaskier but Jaskier won’t let him know, still dancing, around him, with him, like he’s showing these girls how much of an oaf he is but it’s –</p><p>This is not something Jaskier has done before. His quick touches on Geralt’s sides feel like they burn through layers of fabric, and nimble fingers undo the lacing at the front of his shirt to expose his chest, and he feels Jaskier’s breath, smells it, can almost <em>taste it</em>, honey-sweet and heavy with last fall’s plums.</p><p>(This is something Jaskier has done before. A spectacle that has unfolded itself in front of Geralt’s eyes a hundred times over – perhaps a thousand.)</p><p>Alcohol buzzes in his bloodstream but Jaskier undulatingly pushing back into Geralt’s space cracks his resolve.</p><p>“Jaskier,” he whispers, the name turned ragged and wanton. And he closes his eyes, and Jaskier’s knuckles brush his jaw. A shiver runs down his spine, nestles low in his belly. Drums there, in time with his heart. <em>Fuck</em>.  </p><p>“Not here.” Then he is gone. Replaced by the dulcet Novigrad scent of brine, stale ale, cloying perfumes, dung and puke. But with Jaskier at a small distance Geralt can breathe again. Can sense again. He hadn’t realized just how much of his surroundings he tuned out; how he lost all his bearings because he was focused on Jaskier.</p><p>“Sorry, ladies!” Jaskier announces cheerily, swaying a little on his feet. “I think my friend here – <em>hic </em>– is drunk!” He really <em>is</em> a tremendous actor.</p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier stumbles again when Geralt follows him up the stairs. He steadies him by the waist and Jaskier doesn’t look back but puts his hand over Geralt’s for just a moment. A quiet squeeze.</p><p>-</p><p>“I’m not gonna make you talk,” Jaskier says once inside his room.</p><p>“I wasn’t gonna even if you tried to.” He hasn’t been up here since before the renovations, but the smell of ripe plums hangs thick in the air; pears and apples too. An orchard during a fantastic harvest. The imagery matches the colours Jaskier prefers and Geralt can almost imagine the juice dripping, sticky and sweet—</p><p>Then Jaskier is too close again and Geralt can’t think, his senses dulled.</p><p>No, that is <em>wrong</em>. His senses are sharp as ever, but he can only focus on Jaskier, warping the world in a way he is not used to.</p><p>An orchard after fermenting in barrels. He wants to drink it all and needs to close his eyes again. Feels drunk like he’s been through an entire wine cellar, the floor swaying beneath his dirty boots. He probably tracked mud upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is low and closer than he expected.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“You know what you want.” Jaskier’s voice is like syrup.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Sometimes he forgets how capable Jaskier is, behind his grandiose words and ridiculous plans and ridiculous words and grandiose plans. How he is smart enough to have attended Oxenfurt. How he knows Geralt well enough to know what is on his mind without ever needing to read it.</p><p>Knows Geralt well enough that he does not usually let him feel this vulnerable, bare. Knows him well enough that he does not fill the quiet with chatter now but lets him be.</p><p> </p><p>And Geralt does not want to accept but Jaskier is offering – that much is clear.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Why what?” Jaskier asks.</p><p>“Why do you want this?</p><p>“Because,” Jaskier shrugs. Like there is no reason. Or the reason needs no explanation – perhaps it is that obvious to Jaskier.</p><p>Geralt wants to tell him <em>that is too easy</em>. <em>Do better</em>.</p><p>Jaskier is lifting his hand, though. Geralt follows it; he knows Jaskier’s eyes are on him but that would be too much. His chest feels heavy, too full for air again as what he assumed to be stones turn out to be seeds, now being covered by fertile soil.</p><p>Jaskier’s touch is gentle over his eyes, up his jaw, down the straight slope of his nose and then further down yet, pushing his thumb against Geralt’s lips.</p><p>Geralt tastes the salt of Jaskier’s skin even before opening his mouth – then lets Jaskier push further, press the rough pad of it down. Geralt has had kisses less intimate than this. Many, in fact.</p><p>Most. Maybe all.</p><p>When Jaskier withdraws, he traces streaks of Geralt’s own spit down his throat, and then his lips press over the pulse point of his neck. If Jaskier was anybody else – even Triss or Yen – Geralt would not have let them. Too dangerous. One deep bite and his jugular’s decimated; nothing to be done then.</p><p> </p><p>But Jaskier’s kiss is soft and gentle like the skin of a peach heavy with juice. Strangely quiet, too; Geralt used to hear him even if they had enough coin to take separate room. Then, when he pulls away and kisses Geralt on the mouth instead, like the crush of a ripened plum between his teeth, the skin giving way and filling his mouth, quenching his thirst as he swallows down what he has been gifted.</p><p>He holds Jaskier in place by his hair – and then realizes that no, he is not, he is simply pushing his fingers through soft hair. Jaskier stays on his own volition.</p><p>“Have you done this before?” Jaskier asks between kisses.</p><p>“No. Have you?” Geralt asks after more.</p><p>Jaskier laughs, muffled by Geralt’s tongue – then moaning as Geralt pushes their bodies closer. “No. Never with a man.”</p><p> </p><p>Geralt would not have guessed from the way Jaskier lays back amongst his sheets, pulling Geralt down by his fucking medallion. The metal stays quiet against his skin; no magic spills from Jaskier’s fingertips, nothing that can amplify the sensations or will make him last longer.</p><p>But Jaskier helps him undress and Jaskier’s skin is – not quite velvet, rougher than he expected, and the muscles under his skin better defined than Geralt remembers. Better fed, he thinks, before dipping in and tasting.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>until their naked bodies push together</p><p>( again, again, again, again, <em>melitele</em>, again )</p><p>their breath harsher but still Jaskier whispers, words only meant for Geralt,</p><p>their kisses eagerly bruising</p><p>Jaskier’s hands all over Geralt’s body, like he can’t decide where to next</p><p>( again, <em>again</em>, melitele, oh, <em>oh, oh, like that </em>)</p><p>( <em>please </em>)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He can’t tell what pulls him over the edge, in the end. Jaskier’s moans, the slick spreading between them and easing his erratic thrusting, the hand grabbing his ass.</p><p>He buries his head against Jaskier’s neck to muffle his own groan, shaking through his release while Jaskier comes down from his own, languidly stroking the tense muscles of Geralt’s back.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier pushes a finger through the slick between them and licks it clean.<br/>
Like when he was eating strawberries last summer, and the juice came dribbling down his chin. He was smirking at Geralt then, as he is now, using the same finger to tidy himself.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>They don’t speak later.</p><p>Geralt expected that they would. Jaskier rarely does anything without talking, but he’s curled up with his forehead against Geralt’s, sweet plum-breath washing over him, blue eyes locking him in.</p><p>A hand curled loosely around his wrist. This is not bondage, although he figures that in a sense they are bound now. He rarely kisses bed partners after sex; even less so when he isn’t aiming for another round. Jaskier’s kisses come like his words, manifold and varied – shallow now he is drifting off to sleep.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>They wake in a tangle of limbs.</p><p>Jaskier takes his time mapping out Geralt’s body in the morning sun. Traces the scars, and then the contours of his muscles, and finally his dick, slowly bringing him off with two fingers. Geralt corrects him a few times, then lets it happen, Jaskier kissing his shoulder as he spills onto his own stomach.</p><p>He helps Jaskier up, perched over him, his thighs bracketing Geralt’s hips and their fingers tangled together as Jaskier fucks into their hands. Damp hair falls into his eyes and he looks ridiculous and Geralt is in love.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>witchers do not return home; they ought to keep as few possessions as possible</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>(whether unspoken code or good advice)</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>but Yennefer was possessive and Triss was possessive and Jaskier is more than the two of them combined and Geralt –</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>– likes it and he</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>feels stronger now and</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>calmer now and</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>less of a freak, not more.</p><p>
  <strong>contract</strong>
</p><p>(he would like to kiss Jaskier each day upon waking, drool and crinkled skin and morning breath included)</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“This is dangerous,” Geralt tells him. Under the table, Jaskier is pressing their ankles together. He means <em>we are two men</em>. He means <em>we are in Novigrad</em>.</p><p>“I know.” Jaskier shrugs, continuing to peel his egg.</p><p>“Do you, though?”</p><p>He looks up, finally. His eyes sparkle, his purple tunic bringing out their colour. “Are you not more dangerous than them?”</p><p>Geralt doesn't hold back his laughter.</p><p> </p>
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